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Anne Sexton - In The Deep MuseumAnne Sexton - In The Deep Museum
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My God, my God, what queer corner am I in? Didn`t I die, blood running down the post, lungs gagging for air, die there for the sin of anyone, my sour mouth giving up the ghost? Surely my body is done? Surely I died? And yet, I know, I`m here. What place is this? Cold and queer, I sting with life. I lied. Yes, I lied. Or else in some damned cowardice my body would not give me up. I touch fine cloth with my hand and my cheeks are cold. If this is hell, then hell could not be much, neither as special or as ugly as I was told. What`s that I hear, snuffling and pawing its way toward me? Its tongue knocks a pebble out of place as it slides in, a sovereign. How can I pray> It is panting; it is an odor with a face like the skin of a donkey. It laps my sores. It is hurt, I think, as a I touch its little head. It bleeds. I have forgiven murderers and whores and now must wait like old Jonah, not dead nor alive, stroking a clumsy animal. A rat. His teeth test me; he waits like a good cook, knowing his own ground. I forgive him that, as I forgave my Judas the money he took. Now I hold his soft red sore to my lips as his brothers crowd in, hairy angels who take my gift. My ankles are a flute. I lose hips and wrists. For three days, for love`s sake, I bless this other death. Oh, not in air in dirt. Under the rotting veins of its roots, under the markets, under the sheep bed where the hill is food, under the slippery fruits of the vineyard, I go. Unto the bellies and jaws of rats I commit my prophecy and fear. Far below The Cross, I correct its flaws. We have kept the miracle. I will not be here.
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